


Lay That Pistol Down, Babe

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda is unsatisfied with her commute.





	Lay That Pistol Down, Babe

Zelda slams the door open and bursts in, a streak of immaculately curled red hair and emerald silk scarf and attractive, well-cut wool skirt suit from at least two seasons ago, wrinkled and rankled from both past and recent heavy use. The door bangs shut, and she’s huffing past a woman at the percolator.

No one at the station house even flinches. They’re used to bombs of all types, and especially used to this one, who’s invariably elbowing her way in dramatically and stealing someone’s seat at the dining table at least once a week.

They don’t exactly know what the relationship is here, and they don’t ask. Emergency medics have a lot more important things to think about than whether that absolute dish of a redhead who storms in intermittently is getting absolutely railed every night by that absolute doll of a blonde who’s very good at driving ambulances and cleaning up at poker. Not that some of them don’t think about it. Plenty do. And how. But overall, things are what they are. There’s a war on. Who cares?

Hilda’s currently cleaning up at poker, and Zelda crosses briskly to her, stands there at her shoulder, panting—obviously winded and obviously furious.

Hilda pays more attention to the river than she does to Zelda, so Zelda starts in:

“I’m getting sick and tired of this. You’ve got all these petrol rations you’re just hoarding like some fairy tale dragon, and I’m stuck hoofing it all the way to the blessed countryside—” She somehow has the self-control to stop herself there, before she gives out any top-secret info. “I want the motorcycle.” Hilda just about drops her cards at that.

“Zelds. No.”

One girl folds, just so she can listen more intently to what might turn out to be a pretty decent row.

Another girl ups the bet, hoping the red-headed distraction will work in her favor.

Zelda lights a cigarette, but Hilda takes it from her immediately, takes a puff, returns it. 

“But I have a much farther commute—” Zelda starts as Hilda lays her cards down. She’s won with the dead man’s hand. But her kicker had been the queen of spades. She tries not to think about how far they are from the Cain pit. 

The girls all groan as they push the pot toward Hilda. She’s stacking the ration cards and chewing gum and hair pins and cigarettes neatly in front of her as Zelda continues:

“My work is just as important or perhaps more important than yours, and you’re really going to sit here with your work buddies bullshitting and dicking around all day and then deny me efficient transportation?” A hush falls over the room. All eyes are on Zelda. All of those eyes seem to say in unison, “Try seeing all the mangled limbs and decimated buildings and broken families we see every day and come back to us on that, princess.”

“I know firsthand you’re stronger than you look. But I don’t think you want to start a brawl with these odds,” Hilda says.

Zelda rolls her eyes.

“Fine.” She scans the room and says as magnanimously as she can muster, “All of you reprobates and miscreants are very important, and you do much more than just dick around.” She turns back to Hilda. “Now. Give me the keys.”

“You could always bunk at—” Hilda also stops herself just in time although everyone already suspects. “—where you work.”

Zelda’s eyes flash and then she bends at the waist, whispers into Hilda’s ear,

“I’m not interested in bunking with anyone but you.”

The girl who’d folded elbows the girl who’d raised her bet. They share a look with the other girl at the table, who had simply waited.

“I’m off shift in an hour,” Hilda says, voice a touch ragged. “We can practice on the motorcycle then.”

Zelda shoves Hilda’s shoulder and forces herself onto Hilda’s wooden chair with her.

“Deal me in, then.”

“You’ll be able to see my cards,” Hilda says.

“I promise I’ll keep my eyes to myself,” Zelda says, pressing her thigh more firmly against Hilda’s.

xxx

No calls had come in before shift change. Thankfully.

Less thankfully, Zelda is astride the motorcycle in the alley behind the station house.

More thankfully, her snug skirt has bunched up, revealing creamy thighs without stockings. She saves her rations for red meat and cigarettes.

Hilda takes in the luscious sight for a moment, and then even through her lust, she remembers how much of a hell on wheels Zelda can be at the helm of any kind of craft. Zelda had even managed to run over someone on her broom, more than once.

Zelda revs the engine, and Hilda cries out,

“Don’t put your pinkies down that way! Use your whole hand!”

Zelda adjusts as requested but smirks,

“I wish you’d say that to me in a different context.”

Hilda blushes.

“We’re in public, Zelds.”

“I wish you’d say that to me in a different context, too.”

Hilda rolls her eyes this time and then says,

“You remember where the throttle is. And where the brakes are. And how to shift.”

Zelda revs the engine again and smirks again.

“Oh quit it,” Hilda says, anticipating the next dirty thing very accurately. Zelda mock pouts but then,

“Are you going to get on and tutor me, or are you going to flirt with me all evening?”

Hilda scoffs, says,

“I want to make sure you can handle your own weight before you adjust for mine, as well. Take a lap around the block.”

Zelda doesn’t need any more direction than that and zips off. Hilda jogs to the corner to watch. Zelda careens too fast across an intersection, takes a corner rather sharply, falls over entirely when she must stop at a stoplight. Hilda helps her right the vehicle.

“See what I mean?” Hilda says.

“Don’t be smug. It doesn’t look good on you,” Zelda hisses.

“What does look good on me?” Hilda says as she slides on in front of Zelda and grasps the handlebars. Zelda wraps her arms around Hilda’s stomach.

“Nothing,” Zelda whispers into Hilda’s ear. “And I mean that very literally.”

Hilda shifts clunkily, runs a stop sign. And then they’re in their studio flat, kissing against the door.

Zelda slips her hand inside Hilda’s trousers, says,

“You really think you need the motorcycle? It took us thirty seconds to get home.”

Hilda bites Zelda’s neck, thrusts her hips into her hand.

“You really think the motorcycle is safe for you?”

Zelda’s index finger dances along Hilda’s clit. Hilda moans.

“Surely we can come to an agreement,” Zelda says against Hilda’s sternum.

“Surely we can,” Hilda groans, throws aside the emerald scarf so she can adequately fist Zelda’s hair.

Zelda unbuttons Hilda’s trousers, slides them down her hips and thighs and calves. She’s on her knees on the threadbare carpet, her hands tracing taut muscles. When had Hilda gotten to be this way? All that tromping through rubble has certainly done a number on her psyche and her legs besides. Zelda kisses a hard gastrocnemius and relishes the blessing for the many curses.

Hilda hisses. She’s always been so ticklish.

“If you won’t relinquish the motorcycle, will you at least get naked for me?” Zelda says.

Hilda looks down at Zelda, hands still threaded through her hair, skin still tingling from her touch.

“Anytime, love,” Hilda says.

They get naked by moonlight. And then Hilda pulls the blackout curtains. It isn’t modesty. It’s the threat of an air raid at any time.

They find each other easily in the twin bed in the very dark dark. Months of practice, and practice makes perfect.

xxx

Zelda’s alarm clock clangs.

They’re tangled together in the twin bed, no light seeping in at all from the blackout curtains. Hilda says scratchily but totally lucid,

“I know a guy. He can get us a sidecar on the cheap. No rumors that way.”

Zelda snuggles in closer.

“You’ll wake up early and take me to work?” Zelda says.

“I’d do anything for you,” Hilda says.

**Author's Note:**

> A motorcycle-and-sidecar prompt from the group chat.  
> Hilda’s a WWII ambulance driver. Zelda works in cryptography. It’s a whole thing in my brain, sorry not sorry.


End file.
